


Out of the Woods

by selecasharp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, Emotional Porn, First Time, Hurt Dean, Hurt Sam, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Monsters, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Spirits, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selecasharp/pseuds/selecasharp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Flint, the boys decide to go on one of their regular hunts in rural Ohio. But there's something else out there in the woods, stalking Dean, and for Sam, saving him means facing down the complicated mess of emotions sitting between them</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merakieros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merakieros/gifts).



> Written for the Supernatural Reverse Big Bang on Livejournal and crossposted to [LJ](http://teashopmuses.livejournal.com/86999.html).
> 
> Inspired by Deer Woman, an amazing piece by [merakieros](http://merakieross.livejournal.com/)!  
> 

“Slime monsters,” Sam announces. 

Dean looks up, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “Say what now?”

Sam tosses an article from a newspaper in rural Ohio down on the table in front of Dean, who picks up the paper and scans the words. “This just says a couple of teenagers are missing,” he says after swallowing. “Nothing strange about that, unfortunately.”

“Their car was found near one of the drainage ditches on the sides of the roads,” Sam points out. “And it’s _Ohio_.”

“And slime monsters infest Ohio, yeah, yeah,” Dean says, dropping the paper into a puddle of milk. 

Sam makes a face, but he doesn’t say anything. He wants Dean to agree to this, and it doesn’t actually matter anyway. He can always pull the article up on his phone later. “And it’s almost winter,” he continues. “You know they always up their feeding right before they go into hibernation.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Dean mumbles around another mouthful, “but you sound like you _want_ to go hunt slime monsters.”

“I think we should do a sweep, yeah.”

Dean swallows and raises one eyebrow. “You _hate_ slime monsters. Every time we go on a sweep, you bitch and moan the entire time. And don’t tell me that it’s been a few years since the last time we went and that’s why you’re so gung-ho to go now.” He puts his spoon down and meets Sam’s gaze with his own. His eyes look tired, Sam thinks, but clear. “What’s the real reason, Sam?”

Sam looks down at the blurred words of the article. It’s true; he absolutely loathes taking on slime monsters. They’re not hard to fight, not really — all it takes is a bag of rock salt to take them out — but they are, to put it mildly, completely fucking disgusting. Not only does he generally spend the entire hunt feeling like he’s on the verge of vomiting because of the smell, he also invariably ends up so coated in dried slime that it ruins everything he’s wearing at the time, which is a bigger deal for him than it is for Dean. It’s not exactly easy to find jeans that fit him. 

But Dean’s always enjoyed the sweeps, and that’s why Sam wants to go now. It’s a hunt they’ve done dozens of time before, against monsters whose only desires are to eat people and spit slime at everything. It’s easy. It’s routine. It’s exactly what they need to ease back into hunting, now that he’s got Dean back, demon-free and alive and by his side again. 

“It’s slime monsters.” Sam shrugs, trying to sound casual. “You love slime monsters.” 

Dean makes a disgusted face. “I do not _love_ them.”

Maybe not, but Sam knows that Dean loves hunting them, loves how uncomplicated they are. They’re just monsters. No moral judgments, no shades of gray; just kill them and move on. “You love watching them shrivel up after pouring salt on them,” he says out loud. 

The tiniest of smiles touches the corners of Dean’s mouth. “Okay, fine, maybe that part.”

Encouraged, Sam reaches out, touches his brother on the arm. He can remember the last slime monster sweep they went on, a few years ago. Mostly, he remembers Dean laughing as the last one dried up, his face lit up in triumphant glee, and he aches to see his brother’s face like that again. Or even just with a real smile, at this point. And if hunting slime monsters will do it, then Sam will hunt slime monsters. He wraps his fingers around Dean’s forearm and squeezes, just a bit. “It’s a good hunt, Dean, you know it. Think about it. We get some salt, we take a few of them out, I ruin perfectly good clothes, you laugh at me, we hit a Goodwill on the way out of town. It’s normal, for us anyway. It’s what we need, man.”

Dean clears his throat and looks down at the table, but not before Sam sees a suspicious sheen of wetness in his eyes. “Yeah,” he rasps. Then he looks up and flashes a tired grin. “Bring those jeans you’re always bitching about being too short, so then when you ruin them you won’t whine as much as you usually do. I don’t need _that_ much normal, dude.”

Sam can tell that Dean’s mostly putting on a show, playing at acting like they used to, but at least he’s trying. And as long as they’re both trying, they might just get somewhere. He grins back and punches Dean on the arm. “So we’re going?”

Dean nods and punches him back, his knuckles gently pressing against Sam’s upper arm in a brief, warm touch. “Yeah, we’re going.”

*****

The first slime monster doesn’t go down easily. They find it right where Sam thought it would be, in a swamp created by a drainage ditch along the side of a highway. It’s not a bad place to fight one; the highway has street lamps lining it, which are useful as slime monsters are only active at night, and at this hour, it’s fortunately deserted. But he doesn’t have time to feel validated, because the moment they get near the edge of the scrum-crusted water, it erupts out of it at them, roaring and dribbling huge gouts of bright green slime. It’s exactly as gross as he remembers: a massive slug-like thing that reeks like rotting vegetation and sewage mixed together, with a mouth the size of its entire head. Sam gags, nearly overwhelmed, and then realizes that he hasn’t actually gotten the bag of rock salt open yet.

“Dean!” he coughs, frantically yanking at the bag.

“Shit!” Dean yells, taking aim and firing. Guns aren’t much help against slime monsters, but they at least slow them down for a few seconds. Usually. 

The bullet hits the thing with a sickening squelching noise, and ribbons of slime spew out from the wound. Luckily, it stops its advance for a moment, letting out a high-pitched keening, and then its body starts undulating, its skin shining like an oil slick in the bright light of the moon overhead. “It’s gonna blow!” Dean shouts, right as it rears back and hacks a sheet of slime at the two of them. 

Sam ducks, ripping the bag open right as the slime splatters across Dean’s face and chest. “Son of a—” he sputters, wiping at his eyes. 

“No complaining about your shirt,” Sam pants, hefting the bag up and gritting his teeth. “Come on!” he yells at the monster, which is already hacking again. Unfortunately, it’s hacking in the middle of the damn swamp, which means he either has to wade into that crap in order to reach it, or he has to entice it over closer. Neither option is appealing to him. Why, he thinks, did he agree to be the one with the salt and not the one with the gun?

“Sam!” Dean shouts, just as a torrent of slime hits him, knocking Sam back a step. The smell seems to grab him by the throat, and he gags again, his stomach heaving. He’s coated in the stuff; it’s dripping down his hair and plastered across his shirt and his jeans from the knee up. He hears another gunshot, another keening roar, and he wipes frantically at his face with his free hand. 

Dean’s at the edge of the water, the toes of his boots touching the greenish scum coating the surface, his face wiped clean but his upper body a melting candle of green slime. The slime monster’s maybe ten feet in front of him, closer than before, green slime oozing from its mouth and from various points along its body where the bullets have pierced it. It looks — as much as anything that’s basically an open maw attached to a sack of flesh can look — angry.

“Now, Sam!” Dean shouts.

His jeans are a lost cause anyway, he reasons, and wades into the water. The slime monster roars, squelching around to face him, and rears back. Sam lifts the bag high and swings it forward. Salt spills from the open top in a glittering arc, spraying over the slime monster, which screams and shrinks back, its skin hissing. Sam hears Dean let out a triumphant laugh, and warmth seems to spread through him, despite the slime and the smell and the freezing water soaking through his pants. He takes aim and swings again, grinning in satisfaction as the entire rest of the bag of salt hits the quivering monster point-blank. It shrieks again, its body roiling and hissing and deflating, and then it collapses into the water, sinking below the surface until there’s no trace that it was ever there. Other than the massive gobs of slime everywhere, that is.

Panting, Sam shoves the empty bag in his pocket and turns to face his brother. “Check one,” he says.

“I never get tired of that part,” Dean observes. He holds out a surprisingly clean hand. “C’mon, get out of there. You know what happens if this shit dries on us.”

Of course Sam knows. It’s what he hates most about slime monsters: once the slime dries, it’s like cement. It’s why their clothes pretty much never survive encounters with them, but even worse, if they don’t get it cleaned off their bodies fast, it’s fucking hell to deal with, especially if it’s gotten in Sam’s hair. Which it has. 

Sam thrashes toward Dean, the muck at the bottom of the swamp sucking at his boots. He grabs for Dean’s hand, but remembers too late that his own hand is covered in slime; his grip slips, and he ends up falling on his ass in the water. Dean snorts, smirking down at him, and despite everything Sam feels a little thrill of joy, seeing that look on Dean’s face. This was the right decision, he thinks, even as he shudders and gags and nearly chokes with disgust. This was exactly what they needed. 

“Come on, princess,” Dean rumbles, and Sam never thought he’d be happy to hear Dean call him princess again. Sam wipes his hands on his back — the only relatively clean and dry part of him — and then grabs Dean’s hand again. Dean hauls him up and out, and then, without warning, Dean’s hugging him right there at the edge of the swamp, slime and all.

“Dean?” Sam says, and then regrets it. He doesn’t want to question this. He just wants to hug his brother, awful smell be damned. Closing his eyes, he wraps his arms tight around Dean and lays his cheek against his. It’s been too long, he thinks. Too damned long.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles, his fingers pressing patterns on Sam’s back. He lets out a dry laugh. “You were right. Slime monsters.”

“Slime monsters,” Sam agrees, and holds him tighter.

He has no idea how long it is before Dean suddenly drags in a ragged breath and shoves him away. Surprised, Sam staggers back and nearly falls in the water again, but catches himself in time. Dean doesn’t seem to notice, though; he’s staring at the woods beyond the drainage swamp, tight lines drawn across his face. The light from the nearby street lamp seems to flicker, throwing him into shadow. Sam can still see his eyes, though, gleaming despite the darkness.

“Dean?” Sam whispers.

“Did you see…” Dean starts, and then shakes his head, hard. “C’mon, we’ve got to go.” He turns and strides back up the grassy slope toward the Impala, kicking his feet as he goes, trying to shake the slime off. It’s a useless gesture, Sam knows. He watches him for a moment, then turns his head and peers at the trees where Dean was looking. The street lamp’s light doesn’t stretch that far, and it’s hard to make anything out in just the moonlight. But for a moment, Sam thinks he sees a shadow move from one tree to another. 

It’s nothing, he tells himself, and follows Dean to the Impala.

*****

Dean’s quiet on the way back to the motel, and Sam doesn’t want to ask him what happened. He’s not even sure something did happen, anyway. But he can’t stop casting little glances at his brother’s face, watching the shadows and light play across Dean’s features as he drives. It doesn’t answer any of the questions bouncing around in his head, but it at least distracts him from exactly how godawful the two of them smell.

The slime is mostly dried by the time Dean pulls up in front of their motel room. Of course, Sam thinks, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he touches a hank of his stiff green hair. At least his hands are mostly clean, after the dunking in the swamp. Dean had laid down plastic tarps across the front seat in preparation, but when Sam tries to get out, the plastic comes with him, adhered to his ass. Dean, whose ass has somehow remained slime-free, hangs on the door and laughs at him.

“Shut up,” Sam grumbles, undoing his jeans and shimmying out of them right there in the parking lot. At least he’d taken Dean’s advice and worn the too-short pair. Still, it’s not easy to get out of them, and he’s pretty sure half his leg hair has been pulled out by the time he’s finally standing there in his boxers, shivering.

“Nice legs, Sammy,” Dean chortles. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Sam repeats, but without rancor. 

They roll up the plastic and the ruined jeans together and shove the whole mess into a bag, then go into the room before anyone notices, or smells, the two of them. Dean gets out of his own jeans with relative ease, which irritates Sam, but his shirt is another matter. It took the brunt of the slime attack, and no matter how much Dean yanks and contorts, he can’t get it off. “Fucking thing,” Dean mutters finally, glaring down at it. “Sam, gimme a knife.”

“Yeah, right, like you’re cutting your own shirt off.” Sam picks up the knife he’d left on the table, a slim sharp affair with a curved tip, ideal for slicing clothes off, and beckons Dean over. “All right, hold still.”

Dean pulls a face but lets Sam put the knife under the edge of his shirt, the dull side pointed toward Dean’s abdomen. Carefully, Sam pulls it up, cutting through layers of dried slime and cotton. It sounds terrible, like flesh cracking apart, and the smell doubles in intensity. Sam holds his gag reflex in though; there’s no way he’s letting himself choke while wielding a knife right next to his brother’s skin. 

“God, this sucks,” Dean complains.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one complaining?” Sam asks without looking up.

Dean snorts, and Sam can’t help smiling in response. “Just wait until you’re trying to get that shit out of your hair, dude.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sam mutters.

Once he’s finished cutting, Sam grabs the edge of one half of the shirt and yanks, spinning Dean in a circle. Dean swears and struggles and yanks his arms free as the fabric peels away, sending a shower of dried slime to the floor. Sam drops the remains of the shirt and makes a face at it. “I hope you didn’t like that shirt.”

“Like I’d wear something I liked to a slime monster hunt.” Dean shudders, rubbing at his slime-streaked arms. His abdomen is actually mostly clean, Sam notes, and he can’t stop his gaze from lingering on the planes of his brother’s chest. Dean’s only wearing his boxers now, and even though sickly green patches of dried slime mar his skin, he still looks good. Too good.

Sam hasn’t let himself think about Dean like that in a long time, too distracted by anger and then by fear, but it’s always there in the back of the mind, and right now, here, it’s at the front again. He wants to put his hands on that skin, feel Dean’s warmth bleeding into his fingers, wants to breathe him in and taste Dean’s lips with his own. He’s wanted that for years, really, wanted Dean in a way that isn’t just about being brothers or partners. He knows it will never happen, though, and most of the time, he can keep his feelings at bay. But sometimes, it sneaks up on him, catching him unaware, and then he’s almost breathless with aching want.

“Sam?” Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head, hard, grateful that he’s still wearing boxers.

He flips the knife around and offers it to Dean, handle-first. “Come on,” he says, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “I want to get in the shower before I end up with permanently green hair.”

Dean takes the knife and smiles, and it hits Sam hard, that smile. “I’m telling you, just five minutes with the clippers,” he teases, and Sam has to resist the urge to touch his brother’s face, trace the swell of his lip with his fingertips. Wordlessly he holds his arms out and waits. Dean steps up close and slides the knife under the hem of his shirt, and Sam’s breath catches in his throat. He can feel the heat of Dean’s body, can sense the phantom caress of Dean’s fingers, even though Dean isn’t actually touching him. 

Not now, he tells himself firmly.

A few moments later Dean tugs on his shirt, and Sam turns, wrenching his arms free of the stiff fabric. Dean tosses the remains of the shirt on the floor and reaches out, poking at Sam’s hair. “Sure you don’t want me to just cut this off?” he rasps, his voice gravelly, and Sam’s whole body shudders. 

“No, jerk,” he says faintly, and makes the mistake of meeting Dean’s eyes. They’re only a few inches away, bright and wholly Dean’s, and even with the dried slime smeared around them, they’re so damn beautiful Sam momentarily forgets to breathe.

“Bitch,” Dean returns, voice barely above a whisper, and for one dizzying moment, Sam thinks Dean’s going to kiss him. 

But then Dean jerks back from him, breathing hard, and without a word spins on his heel and lurches into the bathroom. The door slams behind him, and Sam hears the water turn on, groaning in the pipes. He stands in the middle of the room, the remains of their clothes scattered around his feet, and stares at the closed door. His body feels tight, his dick hard and straining against the stiff fabric of his boxers, but his chest aches like something’s missing inside.

_What just happened?_

Sam isn’t sure how long he stands there before the door slams back open and Dean stalks out without looking at Sam. He’s wiped the slime off, Sam notes, even gotten it out of his hair. “I’m going out,” he growls, shucking out of his ruined boxers and into another pair so fast all Sam sees is a glimpse of the pale curve of his ass before it’s covered again. Dean yanks on another pair of jeans and a couple of shirts, and then he’s gone, the jangle of keys and the stomp of boots echoing in the room. The Impala’s engine revs, and Sam listens to it roar and then fade as Dean drives away.

The sound of the engine’s completely gone when he finally moves, shuffling his way to the bathroom. Mechanically, he gets his boxers off and steps into the shower, twisting the knobs until the stream is so hot he can barely stand it. He stands under it for the next few minutes, watching the green slime melt off him under the onslaught of the water, swirling around his feet as it drains. The smell is so thick he can taste it in the back of his throat, and yet he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t know what happened, how it had all gone south so quickly, and he feels like he’s been hollowed out. He’d thought they were doing well, that they’d finally been moving past all the shit of the last year, that this hunt was getting them back to the days when everything was, if not perfect, at least good between them. And then it was like it was a few weeks ago, Dean snarling at him and storming off, and for no good reason.

 _Except that he might have noticed how you were looking at him_ , a tiny voice whispers in the back of his mind. Which would make it Sam’s fault, this time. Again.

Three hair washes later, the water finally runs clean. Sam gets out, wraps his hair in a towel, and fumbles for his phone, not caring that his hands are still dotted with droplets of water.

‘ _Where are you_?’ he types out. Holding his breath, he presses send.

His phone buzzes a couple seconds later, and he lets out his breath in a rush. ‘ _At the bar on rt 20_ ,’ Dean’s text reads. Sam remembers that bar; it’s only a mile away, maybe. They’d planned to go there after tonight’s hunt, get a beer together for last call. 

It’s probably a stupid idea, but Sam does it anyway. He throws on some clothes and goes, walking fast, not caring that the nighttime air is freezing his wet hair. It’s just before two when he arrives. The bar is dimly lit and too warm, still crowded with people despite the late hour. Sam scans the room for a moment, not seeing his brother, and then he catches sight of him. 

His heart wrenches.

Dean’s wrapped around a blonde woman in the back of the room, his hands under her shirt, his mouth plastered across hers. She’s got one long leg wrapped around his waist and her hands are clutching at his back, her fingers pressing into him where Sam’s own hands had been barely an hour ago. As Sam watches, his throat so tight he can barely breathe, Dean maneuvers the woman through a doorway and kicks it shut, and Sam knows what’s going on back there. He knows.

He’s out the door and on the road back to the motel before he even makes the decision to leave. It shouldn’t bother him, he tells himself as he half-walks, half-runs along the pavement. It’s not like Dean hasn’t had sex with who knows how many women before, and Sam doesn’t have any claim on him that way, no matter how he feels about it. Sam himself has had sex with plenty of women too. Not any recently, but still.

So why is this hurting him so much?

He busies himself with cleaning up the motel room when he gets back, gathering all their ruined clothes — his heart jerks painfully when he picks up Dean’s shirt — and taking them out back, to an old concrete patio with a sad-looking grill, and setting them all on fire. He watches them burn, heat washing over his face, and tries not to think. 

Dean comes back when he’s just finished wiping up the last of the slime from the bathroom. His brother’s face is drawn, and he’s walking heavily, not at all like he usually moves after getting laid. He doesn’t say a word as he wanders slowly through the room, his eyes glazed, and he doesn’t even look at Sam. It’s not like it is when Dean’s deliberately ignoring him, when Sam can still feel the weight of Dean’s attention centered around him, if not on him. It’s more like Dean doesn’t even see him, even though his eyes pass over Sam a couple times. 

“Dean?” he finally ventures.

Dean doesn’t respond, just sits down on his bed and lies back. His hair is rumpled, and his clothes are askew, and yet he’s pale, not flushed like he usually would be post-sex. Worried, Sam creeps closer. This isn’t normal. Even given that Dean might have freaked out about realizing that his little brother wants him, it’s still not normal. For a moment, he considers that the Mark of Cain might be affecting Dean somehow, but as far as he can tell, the First Blade has to be nearby to make that difference, and besides, it never made him act dazed before. The opposite, really. So it’s not that, Sam’s almost sure.

“Dean?” he repeats.

Dean blinks, and then his eyes focus on Sam. “Hey,” he rasps. “Didn’t see you.”

“Are you...” Sam starts. He risks reaching out to touch Dean’s arm, and Dean doesn’t jerk away. He just looks down at Sam’s hand, almost like he’s confused. Sam clears his throat. “Are you okay, man?”

Dean nods, his eyes glazing over again. “Fine.”

He rolls away, closing his eyes and seeming to fall asleep right there, boots still on. Sam pulls his hand back and stares down at him. If he hadn’t been sure before, he is now. Dean never falls asleep that easily, not anymore. He remembers that shadow again, flitting between the trees, and the look in Dean’s eyes as he stared out into the darkness. 

Something’s wrong.

*****

Dean shakes him awake the next morning. “Did you burn our crap?” he demands.

Sam blinks up at him, blearily, but comes awake when he sees that Dean’s eyes are clear again. “Yeah,” he yawns. “While you were at the bar.” He waits to see what Dean will do, if he’ll smirk and start making innuendos like he usually does the morning after. If he does, then maybe Sam’s wrong. Maybe everything’s all right, and it’s his own biases — his attraction to his brother rearing its head, combined with his certainty that the two of them will never, ever get a break — convincing him it’s not.

Dean’s lips purse for a moment. “Barely remember that,” he shrugs finally. “Slime fumes must’ve gotten to me.” He punches Sam in the shoulder. “Wait next time, bitch, I wanna help.”

Sam isn’t sure what to make of that.

They move onto a town only about half an hour down the highway, where a college kid on a road trip had been found drowned and half-eaten in a pond smack in the middle of a nature preserve. It’s not a swamp, exactly, but the waters are still and covered with floating green algae, and it looks and smells like the kind of place a slime monster would call home. “No streetlights this time,” Dean points out as they pace the circumference of the pond, the early afternoon sun streaming down through the tangled web of bare branches overhead. Autumn is almost over. “We’ll have to bring flashlights.”

“In that case,” Sam replies, poking a stick at a green glob on the edge of the water that he’s pretty sure isn’t algae, “you’re the one who has to take the rock salt.”

“Aww, is Samantha still mad about ending up in the water last time?” Dean teases, and Sam laughs and shoulder checks him, nearly sending Dean into the water. Dean swears and then punches him in the bicep, grinning, and maybe Sam _is_ wrong. Maybe everything is fine. 

He resolves to keep an eye on Dean, and a lid on his own desires, regardless.

Luckily, the sky is clear when they come back that night, the moon and the stars overhead casting a faint light on the pond and the surrounding woods. It’s still dark, of course, but with Sam playing their brightest flashlight over the area, they can see well enough. Which is good, as it gives Dean the use of both hands to control the rock salt. “You ready?” Sam asks him, starting to reach out for him before thinking twice about it.

Dean rips the bag open. “Lock and load, Sammy.” 

He reaches out too, grabs Sam’s hand in a brief squeeze. Sam’s heart pounds in his ears, and he pulls away first, drawing his gun. He hears Dean drag in an unsteady breath and resists the urge to look at him. Instead he pulls the hammer back on his pistol and aims both it and the flashlight at the water.

Slime monsters aren’t hard to attract, not at night, and especially not during peak feeding season. Sam edges forward and taps the toe of his boot on the water, starting up a rhythmic splashing. The surface ripples, and a terrific smell assaults him. Hastily, he backs up, just as the water fountains up and a slime monster slops upward from the depths. 

Sam fires, hitting it just under the gaping mouth, and muddy green slime explodes out from its — for lack of a better term — throat. It roars, shaking its loose skin in waves, and boils across the surface of the water toward him. “Dean!” Sam shouts, backing up again. This one should be easy; it’s focused on him, not Dean, and it’s heading right for the edge of the water. All Dean has to do is dump the salt out at the right moment and it’s over.

The slime monster reaches the bank and stops, roaring, and rears back, hacking and preparing to spit. It’s a perfect shot, and if they’re really lucky, they’ll get out of this without even getting slimed. “Dean, now!” he shouts again.

Dean doesn’t appear.

“Dean?” Sam shouts, spinning, his flashlight beam sweeping across the trees. The bag of rock salt is still there, crumpled on the banks with a few granules spilled out onto the dead grass around it, but his brother is nowhere to be seen.

The slime monster gags, and Sam swears and dives for the bag, dropping his gun and nearly dropping the flashlight in the process. A volley of slime splatters the ground where he’d just been, catching the bottom half of his legs, and Sam thrashes forward across the grass toward the salt. The slime monster roars again, and he grabs the bag and scrambles to his feet, slipping and sliding. It’s closing in on him, sloshing through the water and dribbling bits of slime as it comes. Its head splits open wide, sending a blast of fetid air into his face.

Sam swings the bag, spilling the salt in a glittering spray right into its mouth. The slime monster shrieks and draws back, screeching wetly, the walls of its body collapsing inward. Sam shakes out the rest of the bag over it, and after a few moments it stops moving altogether. He kicks at the dried-out husk until it sinks down under the water, gagging as the stench roils over him.

Swearing, he shoves the empty bag in his pocket, finds his gun, and follows the muddy line of footprints meandering away from the banks and into the woods. “Dean?” he yells, caught halfway between fury and terror. But terror is winning; Dean wouldn’t have walked out on him, not now, not against a slime monster, of all things. “Dean, where are you?”

The trees seem to be closing in, the trunks growing so densely around him that his flashlight doesn’t penetrate far. He can still see faint scuff marks in the dead carpet of leaves underfoot, but there’s no sign of his brother. He’s shaking now, the flashlight beam dancing wildly over the ground, his breath coming in short bursts. “Dean!” he bellows, fear making his voice raw.

Nothing.

Sam’s running now, following the faintest hint of a trail, his breathing loud and panicked in his ears. The marks on the ground don’t even look like boot prints anymore, more like the marks left by an animal. But they’re all he has, so he follows them, calling his brother’s name.

He catches sight of Dean a split second before he literally runs into him. They crash to the ground, the dead leaves crackling and rustling under them, and Sam drops the flashlight and grabs for Dean’s face. “Dean!” he pants, turning Dean’s head up to face him. 

The flashlight’s beam catches the side of Dean’s face, and so Sam sees it when his vacant eyes suddenly spark back into awareness. “Sammy?” Dean’s voice cracks. Sam feels Dean’s hands touch him, running up his back until Dean’s gripping his shoulders so hard it hurts. “Sam, what happened? Where the fuck are we?”

“I don’t know, in the woods somewhere,” Sam replies, bending his head until his forehead is pressed against Dean’s. He’s sprawled half on top of Dean, half on the cold hard ground, and he wants to grab Dean in a hug and hold him close until his heart stops beating quite so fast. He settles for closing his eyes and cupping Dean’s face with his hands. “You just disappeared, man. What happened?”

Dean goes stiff under him, his breathing erratic. “I don’t know,” he finally croaks. “I was watching you, and then — I don’t know, I don’t fuckin’ remember.” He pushes Sam away from him and sits up, then grabs for Sam’s arm again. “Are you okay, Sammy? Did the slime monster—?”

“Ruined my jeans, yeah, but I’m fine. It’s dead.” Sam sits up too and runs his hands through his tangled hair, knocking leaves and dead grass free.

Dean lets out a sigh of relief and slumps back. “Goddamn it,” he mutters. He picks up the flashlight and points it at his arm, shaking back the sleeve. Sam goes quiet, knowing what Dean’s thinking, but though the Mark of Cain is still there, it’s faint, barely discernible on his brother’s skin. It’s not responsible for whatever just happened. Dean hisses out a breath and sets the flashlight back down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve left you, Sammy. I shouldn’t’ve fuckin’ left you again.” His voice breaks on the last word.

Sam reaches for him again, tentatively puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “Dean,” he says slowly, “maybe doing a whole sweep is too much. We took out two of them already. You think we should head back to the bunker? Or go south for a while, just relax—?”

Dean’s already shaking his head. “No, Sam. You were right before, I need to do this. I need to gank some of those motherfuckers and not think about anything else.”

Sam thinks about protesting, about pointing out that something’s clearly going on with Dean, something outside of the Mark of Cain and hunting slime monsters. But he has no proof that it’s not just something in Dean’s head, other than the sight of a shadow that might not have even been there. If this is what Dean thinks he needs, then he’ll stay right by Dean’s side and hope to hell his brother’s right.

“All right,” Sam says out loud, and gets to his feet. He offers Dean a hand, but his brother ignores it, scrambling up on shaky legs. He picks up the flashlight and gestures at Sam with it. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sam follows him, head down, trying not to feel hurt. He focuses on the ground instead, following the marks of his own boots as they weave their way back through the trees and toward the pond and, beyond it, the Impala. His mind is full, thoughts whirling as he walks, but he still can’t help noticing something odd. Though he can see his own footprints clearly, he doesn’t see any of Dean’s until they’re nearly back to the pond.

He does, however, see hoof prints.


	2. Chapter Two

When they finally reach the Impala, Dean hands Sam the keys and, without a word, gets in on the passenger side. That, more than anything else, tells Sam just how rattled his brother is. Dean doesn’t even say anything about the slime coating the lower half of Sam’s legs or making sure to keep his baby clean; he just sits there, head in hands, while Sam quickly shimmies out of his jeans and into the pair of sweatpants he’d remembered to bring this time. He wraps the jeans in the tarp — they won’t be needing it this time — and then slides onto the seat next to Dean.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Dean laughs, hollowly. “What do you think?”

Neither of them says a word during the short drive back to tonight’s motel, though Sam keeps stealing glances at Dean in between watching the road. Dean stares out the window for most of the trip, his mouth set in a thin line, but once Sam catches him looking over at the driver’s side of the car. Their eyes meet, or Sam imagines that they do, there in the near-darkness. All he can see is the gleam of Dean’s eyes and the curve of one cheek, but for that moment he feels tense, excited and nervous, his skin electrified as if Dean had touched him instead of just looked at him, and he almost speaks, almost blurts out something he knows he’ll regret. Then Dean hastily looks away, and the silence is even louder.

Sam doesn’t look at him after that.

When Sam pulls up in front of the motel entrance and shuts off the engine, Dean doesn’t move. Sam clears his throat, then ventures, “Dean?” in a voice far scratchier than he intended. Dean doesn’t respond, and Sam bites his lip and then grasps his brother’s shoulder. “Dean,” he repeats, shaking him slightly.

Dean starts, then pulls himself out of Sam’s grip. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

Sam doesn’t push it, not there. He just gets out and circles around to Dean’s side of the car. Dean hasn’t bothered to open his own door, so Sam does it for him; then, after waiting a minute, reaches in and gets a grip on his brother’s shirt, tugging until Dean eventually unfolds himself out of the car, his expression dangerously vacant.

“Let’s go inside,” Sam says, trying not to sound as concerned as he is. To his relief, Dean nods at that. Sam heads for the door, keys in hand, glancing over every few steps to make sure Dean’s actually following. Dean shuffles along just behind him, moving as if in a fog, and Sam clenches his hand around the keys so hard they bite into his palm. Even for Dean, even with what just happened, it’s not right. Dean should be angrier, furious at himself for fucking up, not acting as if he’s half asleep.

As soon as they’re both safely inside, Sam tosses the keys down and grabs for his laptop. The motel doesn’t have free wifi, but a nearby bar does, or so Sam assumes as he connects to ‘louiesbar’. The connection’s not bad, and he gets a search engine up with just a few keystrokes. ‘Hooves,’ he types, and then, ‘fugue state,’ because if that doesn’t describe Dean right now, Sam doesn’t know what does. But that won’t get him anything useful, he knows from years of doing such searches. He needs more.

He turns to find Dean sitting on the bed by the door, staring down at his hands, his mouth slack. 

“Dean,” he tries. Dean doesn’t respond, but Sam hadn’t actually expected him to, and that worries him. Dean seems to falling back into this state, whatever it is, more and more easily. If only touching him weren’t the best way to rouse him, he thinks, rueful. But if that’s what he has to do—

He wraps his fingers around Dean’s bicep and squeezes. “Dean,” he repeats, louder.

Dean blinks, and then slowly raises his head until he’s looking at Sam. “Sam,” he says, almost sounding surprised. He blinks again, then purses his lips and shakes his head. “Right, we’re back at the motel.” He shakes his head again, raising his hands to massage his temples. “And I fucked up, didn’t I?” 

“Dean, if you can tell me anything about what happened—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean snaps. 

At least that’s more like the usual Dean. Sam had hoped it wouldn’t be, after what they’d just gone through with the Mark and the demon cure and everything else, but maybe that’s too much to ask. He wonders how to broach this; should he try to be gentle and wheedle what information he can out of Dean, or take a more logical tack and explain exactly what he needs Dean to try to remember? 

Or should he just do what he usually does and argue or demand it from him and possibly start yet another fight? 

But in the end all Sam has to do is look at him, and Dean relents. “Damn you and your puppy eyes,” he mutters. “ _What_ , Sam?”

“You keep checking out on me, man,” Sam starts, hesitant. He hopes what he’s about to say is true. “Something’s happened to you, Dean, this isn’t normal. What’s going through your head? Can you remember anything about what you saw?”

Dean sighs, his hands gripping the sides of his head. “I don’t know where my head is right now, Sam.” He falls silent. Sam waits, watching him. Dean’s arm is warm under his palm, sending little tingles through his skin, and he thinks about letting go. But Dean’s eyes are still clear, and this isn’t about him. Finally Dean lowers his hands. “After you — I remember I saw something,” he rasps, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Something across the pond, moving between the trees. But then it’s like — like nothing, after that. I don’t remember a goddamn thing. And it’s not the Mark, and it’s not fuckin’ slime monsters, so what is it? What the hell is it, Sammy?”

He looks up then, and Sam’s surprised to see a slight sheen over his reddened eyes. Sam doesn’t think about it, just grips Dean by the shoulders and pulls him into a hug. “We’ll figure it out,” he says to Dean’s back. “I’ll check online, see what I can find. We’ll get through this, man, I promise.”

Dean nods, shuddering in his arms, and Sam doesn’t want to let him go. But then Dean shoves him away, mumbling, “Don’t touch me,” as he scoots back on the bed. Slowly, Sam sit backs in the chair, blinking hard. Dean’s staring at the floor, breathing heavily, his eyes glassy. 

Sam fishes around for something else to say, then pushes the hurt away and turns back to the laptop. He’s said what he needs to. Right now, Dean needs him to figure out what’s happening.

He adds ‘woods’ to the search and tries it, but without much hope. He’s right; all the results are either definitions of ‘fugue state’, which don’t help, or links to fiction stories and blogs. He switches ‘woods’ for ‘forest’, with barely any change. Thinking harder, he gets rid of ‘fugue state’ — it might be accurate, but it’s also too technical a term for what he needs — and tries ‘enchantment’ instead. That brings up a lot of results including the phrase ‘enchanted forest,’ none of which is relevant. Not even adding ‘monster’ or ‘supernatural’ helps; although the results change, they mostly center around either fanfiction or operas or, in one case, Harry Potter.

There’s nothing else for it. He needs to know more.

“Dean?” he asks, turning to look at him, thinking vaguely that he might go back out to the pond by himself to try to find some kind of clue. “What do you think about—” He stops short.

Dean’s gone.

Sam jumps to his feet so fast the chair topples, falling with a crash. He ignores it and turns on the spot, taking in the small room, hoping to find Dean lying on the other bed, or huddled in a corner, or _something_. But he’s definitely not in the room, and he’s not in the bathroom either; Sam can see inside it from here, see the toilet and the tub beyond it, and it’s too small for Dean to be hiding anywhere else. Heart hammering in his chest, Sam turns to look at the door leading out to the parking lot, and the woods beyond it. 

It’s half open.

*****

Sam grabs the keys, both to the room and to the Impala, and bolts out the open door without even putting his jacket on. At least the Impala’s keys were still there, he thinks as he slams the door behind him. Though he’d have known if Dean had taken them; he’d have heard the engine starting. 

Of course, he should have heard the door opening too.

No time to worry about that now. He stops by the Impala long enough to grab a flashlight and one of their silver knives, then heads for the stand of trees behind the motel. There’s no question in his mind; Dean went for the woods. Their motel borders on the same nature preserve that contains the pond, and even the town half an hour away up the interstate is connected to it. Everything’s centered around the woods. 

The vast, unfamiliar, nighttime woods.

Dean couldn’t have gotten far on foot, Sam reassures himself. He’ll find him. He has to. 

He plays the flashlight over the ground and on the tree trunks, looking for any sign of his brother’s passing. After a few minutes of frantic searching, he finds one: half a boot print in the dirt between two trees growing so close together that both trunks brush his shoulders as he steps between them. His shirt catches on something, pulling him to a halt for a moment. Splintered bark, he realizes, turning with some difficulty to shine the light on the tree to his right. 

Two long gouges, nearly three feet long, split the trunk in parallel lines, starting about two feet above his head. Sam stares at them, alarm gripping him. His first thought is claws, but they’re too far apart and too big to have been made by any normal animal living in this area. They look more like the marks left by antlers, but they’re way too high for deer.

Something’s out here.

Sam grips the knife tightly and walks on. The darkness envelops him, broken only by the thin beam of his flashlight. It’s colder in the woods, the wind seeming to cut through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Leaves crunch underfoot, and he holds his breath, listening to faint rustling of the trees, or possibly animals, scratch the air. “Dean?” he shouts every few steps. “Dean, come one, answer me!” Luckily the trail Dean left is fairly clear this time, and Sam moves quickly, peering through the darkness for any sign of his brother. Or of anything else.

The silence thickens the further he goes, broken only by his footsteps and the sound of his breathing. More gouges scar the trees, he sees; nearly every trunk back here is marked in some way. Several he’s sure were made by actual deer, but many are like the first he saw, too high and too deep. “Dean?” he calls, but his voice is hushed now.

There’s a footstep behind him.

Sam whirls, shining the light in a wild arc around him. The trees seem to lean in, closing over his head, but there’s no sign of movement. “Dean?” he yells, his voice swallowed up by the darkness.

Another footstep.

Sam changes his grip on the blade, lifting in preparation as he spins again, searching frantically. But there’s nothing, nothing but the trees and branches overhead, nothing but the still air and the leaves underfoot. And, in the distance, the glimmer of water. Sam stops and trains the light on it, breathing hard. 

A dark shape bisects the faint gleam.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, and then he’s running, weaving around the trees, not caring if anything’s following him. The light catches the blue of Dean’s jeans first, and then his brother is lit up in the glow of the beam, standing on the edge of a small stream, his back to Sam. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, not even when Sam finally reaches him and hastily shoves the flashlight in his waistband so he can grab for Dean’s arm. “Dean,” he pants, pulling Dean around to face him. The light shines up between them, illuminating Dean’s chin and mouth and throwing the rest of his face into shadow.

His brother’s eyes, what Sam can see of them, are utterly empty. 

Sam hooks the knife on his belt and grabs Dean’s shoulders with both hands. “Dean, it’s me, it’s Sam. Come on, answer me, man.” 

“She’s coming,” Dean replies in a voice nothing like his own. His tone is flat, without inflection, eerie in the dark silence of the trees. “She’s close. She’ll be here soon.”

Sam’s blood runs cold. “Who? Who’s coming, Dean?” 

Dean lifts his head, making the shadows dance over his blank face. His eyes are glowing, Sam realizes, horrified. Their pale luminescence washes his face, turning his skin a sickly green. “She’s calling me,” he intones. “I have to go to her.” 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sam says fervently. He pulls Dean into a tight hug, hoping that this time his touch will work, that it will shake Dean out of it before whatever is out there reaches them.

Dean doesn’t move, just stands there, stiff in his arms, the faint green glow surrounding them both now. “She’s calling. I have to go.”

“No, Dean.” Sam cups Dean’s face with both hands and leans their foreheads together. “You’re staying here, with me.”

Sam closes his eyes, feels Dean’s warmth, feels his shallow breaths tickle across his face. He strokes his thumbs over the curve of Dean’s jaw, mumbling his brother’s name. He won’t lose Dean, not after everything he just went through to get him back. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, Dean, come back.”

Then Dean jumps, shaking his head hard, and stumbles back a step. “Sam,” he gasps, his voice ragged and his again. The green light abruptly fades, and Sam nearly collapses with relief. “Sam, what the hell? Where the fuck are we?”

“It happened again,” Sam answers. He pulls the flashlight free and gives it to Dean, then wraps one hand around the handle of the knife. He grabs Dean’s wrist with the other. “Come on, we’re getting out of here, before she comes.”

“‘She'?” Dean repeats, but Sam starts running, pulling him back through the trees, following the marks of his own passage. The light bounces over the ground as they move, and more than once Sam thinks he hears footsteps following them. “Sam!” Dean shouts behind him, but Sam doesn’t answer. He can explain later. Right now, they have to get out of here, and fast. 

There’s definitely something following them; he can hear the footsteps, moving at a steady pace behind them, striking a quick staccato over the leaves and dirt. Something slots into place in his mind. Not footsteps, he realizes.

Hoofbeats.

Sam veers to the side, pushing through the trees toward the lights of the motel parking lot shining through the branches ahead. A sliver of the woods around them is illuminated by them, and Sam risks looking back. Dean’s there, panting hard, the flashlight clenched in his free hand. Behind him, there’s nothing. No woman, or creature with hooves, appears, and Sam isn’t going to wait to see if one does. He’s not risking Dean, not in this fight.

“Come on,” he pants.

“Sam, what—”

Sam breaks into a full sprint then, dragging Dean after him until they reach the door to their room. He finally lets go of his brother then, fishing in his pocket for the room keys and then pushing Dean inside ahead of him the moment it’s open. Once the door’s shut again, he puts the chain on, then grabs the cheap dresser and drags it over until it’s blocking the frame. “There,” he pants.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean wheezes, dropping down on the bed. “I’d ask what the fuck that was, but I think I know.” He looks up, right at Sam. “I did it again. Didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Sam gasps, feeling his way over to the table and collapsing into the chair. “Do you remember anything?”

“I was sitting on the bed, here,” Dean says, heavily. “And you got out the laptop, and you…” He trails off, shaking his head and rubbing at his temples. “Nothing after that.”

“Nothing about a woman?”

Dean blinks. “A woman?”

“You were talking about a woman, that she was calling you,” Sam says slowly, thinking. A woman. Hooves. The marks on the trees. Another piece of the puzzle snaps into place. “I think I have an idea of what’s going on.” He turns back to the laptop and erases the old search terms, getting rid of ‘monster’ and ‘enchantment’ and even ‘forest.’ He leaves ‘hooves’ and hastily types two more words: ‘deer’ and ‘woman.’

Several hits come up. Sam clicks on the first one, skimming through it. 

It fits. It all fits. 

“What are you doing?” Dean demands, leaning over the back of the chair to peer at the screen. “‘Deer Woman’?”

Sam taps on a drawing of an eerily beautiful woman with long antlers and the legs of a deer. She’s standing upright, surrounding by trees, an enigmatic smile on her face. “This is it,” he says out loud. He reads the lines underneath the picture, his heart racing in his chest. “Dean, this is what keeps making you forget what you’re doing. It’s Deer Woman. She’s targeted you.”

He turns to look at his brother. Dean’s face is only inches away, and Sam’s breath catches. They both go quiet, staring at each other. Dean’s lips are slightly parted, pink in the lamplight, and Sam wants to touch him again, put his hands back on Dean’s face, press his lips to Dean’s and breathe him in. All of his cautions and admonishments are forgotten, in the nearness of his brother. He even starts to reach up, to touch his fingers to Dean’s cheek.

Dean swallows suddenly, his throat working. “Deer Woman,” he repeats, hoarse.

Sam clears his throat. Not now, he tells himself. 

Not ever. 

“Look at this,” he says, forcing himself to look back at the screen. “She’s a nature spirit who takes the form of a woman with the lower half of a deer and antlers. It all works, see? There were hoofprints in the dirt by the pond, and the marks on the trees — I thought they looked like they’d been made by antlers, but they were too high for deer. But not for her.” He touches the antlers on the drawing, tracing the points. “Strange, really, that she has them. Except for caribou, female deer don’t have antlers. But I don’t think she’s part caribou; we’re too far south, and she looks like a white-tailed deer here.”

To his surprise, Dean lets out a snort of laughter. “Seriously?” he chortles. “Dude, you are a grade-A geek if you’re worrying about what friggin’ species of deer she is.”

Sam smiles a little. “Okay, yeah, but still. Everything fits, Dean. She’s usually benign, but she can be dangerous, too.” He reads aloud from the screen. ““People drawn into her presence often do not remember how or why they went into the woods.’”

Dean frowns. “‘She is an eternal spirit who roams, searching for any who desire her image over a true relationship,’” he reads over Sam’s shoulder. “‘Deer Woman targets adulterous or promiscuous men, especially those who hurt the ones they love by refusing to deal with their feelings. She then lures them to their deaths, usually by trampling them.’” He sits back, glaring at the screen. “So, what, I sleep with one woman in a bar and some mystical deer lady decides I’m too fucking slutty to live?”

“You said it, not me,” Sam says, automatic. Dean smacks him on the shoulder. “But there’s more to it than that,” he adds hastily. “You saw her before that happened, on the first hunt. And she doesn’t just target men who sleep around, you read that yourself. It’s men who won’t deal with their feelings and hurt someone they love by sleeping around.” The words are out of his mouth before his brain catches up.

Dean’s face goes white.

Sam can hear the ticking of the radiator against the wall, thunderous in the sudden silence. Dean’s eyes are wide, panicked, his hands clenching at the fabric of his jeans so hard that some of the weaker spots are tearing. The words his brother just read seem to echo in the space between them. 

_—who desire her image over a true relationship—_

_—who hurt the ones they love by refusing to deal with their feelings—_

Every time it happened, Sam thinks, hardly daring to believe it. In the drainage swamp, after that hug. At the pond, after they’d gripped hands. In the room earlier, after Sam had hugged him. And that moment last night, before Dean left for the bar, when Sam had thought Dean was about to kiss him. And the pain, the pain after he’d seen Dean with that woman—

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who could you be hurting?”

Dean leaps to his feet, agitation in every line of his body as he begins pacing, his hands still tearing at his jeans. “No,” he rasps, shaking. “No, Sam, no.”

“Dean?” Sam whispers, eyes searching Dean’s face. The thought of it, of Dean feeling the same way about him, is almost too big, too impossible to be acknowledged. But he can’t ignore it now, not if it’s the reason behind what’s happened, not if acknowledging it is the exact thing that will keep Dean alive and out of Deer Woman’s sights. 

He reaches out, catches Dean’s hand before his brother can jerk it away. Dean goes still, his breathing ragged. “Sam,” he mumbles. “Don’t, Sammy. Please.”

“Dean.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Is it me?” 

There’s a crash behind him, and with a gasp, Sam turns to see the dresser on its side and the door to their room yawning open, a square of darkness against the light. Dean wrenches his hand free and shoves past him, knocking him into the wall before striding out the door, but not before Sam catches a glimpse of him.

Dean’s whole body is glowing.

*****

Sam barely even feels the impact. He rebounds off the wall, gasping, and hurtles out the door, not bothering with the keys or the flashlight or even the silver knife still on the table. He can’t lose sight of Dean, not this time. If he does—

No. He won’t even think about that. He’s not going to lose him, that’s all there is to it.

Ahead of him, Dean stalks toward the woods, a faint green glow lighting the grass around him. “Dean!” Sam shouts, bolting after him. He’s always been a faster runner than Dean, even more now that his legs are longer. He runs full out, faster than he ever does when he goes on runs, so fast he half expects to trip and go sprawling. But Dean’s already almost to the trees, and once they’re in the woods, Sam won’t have the advantage of speed anymore. He has to catch up now.

The glow brightens the closer he gets, making it easier to see Dean. But it’s not Dean glowing, he realizes, slowing for a heartbeat. He can see them now: green tendrils of threaded light surrounding Dean, circling his wrists and neck, pulling him along. They stretch out from him, weaving through the trees and disappearing into the darkness under the branches. Sam can’t make out where they lead, but he knows exactly what’s on the other end.

No, he thinks fiercely, and lunges forward. 

He reaches Dean at the same time they reach the treeline. Sam tries grabbing for the threads of light first, hoping to break them, but his hands pass right through them. Dean doesn’t even seem to notice; he just shoves his way between a tree and a large prickly bush, his glowing eyes focused straight ahead.

“Dean,” Sam pants, seizing his brother’s shoulders and trying to turn him around. “Dean, listen to me, don’t go.”

Dean stumbles but doesn’t turn. “I have to go to her.” His voice is flat, like before, but there’s a note of urgency in it that wasn’t there earlier. A thrill of fear clenches at Sam’s heart. If the lights hadn’t already convinced him, this would have done it. This is it. This is the final call.

Unless Sam can stop it.

“No,” he grunts, wrapping his arms tight around Dean’s shoulders. Dean fights him, but Sam digs his heels into the ground and hauls Dean back, forcing him toward the edge of the forest. It even seems to work; Dean staggers back a few steps, breathing hard, and actually turns his head to look at him. Sam twists his head to meet his gaze, just in time to see the glow in Dean’s eyes flicker and dim. A spark of relief flares to life in Sam’s chest. Just a few more feet, and they’ll be out of the woods and, soon, out of this entire fucking state.

Then the threads snap taut, and Dean’s eyes blaze a blinding green. “Let go,” he growls.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the brightness but doesn’t loosen his grip. “No, Dean.”

Dean struggles, hard, his fists raining down blows on Sam’s forearms and hands, but Sam just holds tighter. The pain is nothing compared to what will happen if he lets go. “I have to go,” Dean bites out, but he sounds almost pleading now, as if Sam is the one hurting him. “If I go, everything will be okay.”

“She’ll stomp you to death!” Sam yells. “How the fuck is that okay?”

“I have to go,” Dean repeats, and his right boot comes down on Sam’s instep, hard. At the same time, his left elbow smashes up and back, catching Sam on the cheekbone so hard stars explode across his vision. Reeling, he tries to keep his grip on Dean, but then his foot crumples under him, and he automatically throws his hands out to catch himself as he falls.

And Dean runs.

“Dean,” Sam croaks, blinking hard, trying to clear his vision. Through blurry eyes, he sees Dean, green cords of light fastened to his legs as well now, disappear behind a particularly massive tree. Wincing, Sam claws his way back to his feet with the help of the nearest oak, his cheek throbbing with every movement. His foot protests when he puts weight on it, but Sam grits his teeth against the pain and starts after Dean. Limping, he follows the faint trail of light, using tree trunks for balance. 

Sam’s palms are scraped up by the time he catches sight of Dean again. He’s on the bank of that same stream, the green cords whirling in the air around him. “Dean!” Sam bellows, forgetting the pain, forgetting everything but getting to his brother.

Dean stands stock still, not looking at him, not looking at anything. “Dean,” Sam pleads, grabbing his brother’s hands. Dean doesn’t move, but he doesn’t try to free himself either, so Sam laces his fingers with Dean’s and squeezes. “Dean, come on, it’s me, it’s Sam. Snap out of it, man.” 

There’s no response. 

Sam lifts their joined hands and presses his uninjured cheek against Dean’s fingers, whispering, “Please, Dean. I can’t lose you again, not like this.”

A twig snaps, loud in the near silence. Sam jerks his head up, turning it so fast that his bruised cheek gives a particularly nasty throb. He squints, searching the darkness, but all he can see are the smudged outlines of tree trunks, barely illuminated by the lights still tethered to his brother. But he can hear something, growing louder with each passing second.

Hoofbeats. 

The lines surrounding Dean suddenly snap straight, and Dean turns, his hands pulling out of Sam’s, his vacant eyes swiveling to look in the opposite direction. Heart pounding, Sam seizes Dean’s jacket and slowly turns his head.

And sees her.

She stands a few feet away, watching them, the fingers of one graceful hand resting on the bark of a large tree. He can see her clearly, despite the darkness: the long black hair rippling around her, the deer legs covered with soft tan fur and the unearthly white skin of the rest of her body, the pointed antlers crowning her head. White-tailed deer antlers. He was right, he thinks faintly, his grip on Dean’s jacket tightening. She’s smiling, just slightly, her full lips twisted in a triumphant smirk, and her eyes — her eyes are glowing too, with same haunting green light still snaking through the air around Dean. She both looks like the picture he saw online, and nothing like it at all. Deer Woman, the real one, is taller, stronger, much more beautiful — and far more terrifying — than any drawing could capture. 

Still smiling, she takes a step forward, her hooves crunching over the ground. She holds out both hands, palms up. “Come,” she says, and her voice is the whistling of wind through the trees, the babble of water over stones, and the clash of horns against bark. 

Dean pulls himself right out of Sam’s grasp, his eyes locked on her. 

“No,” Sam mouths more than says, throwing himself forward and wrapping his arms around his brother. “No, Dean, come on, please!” 

“Come,” Deer Woman says again. The branches creak overhead, and the light grows brighter, more sinister. Her hair whips around her face as she curls her fingers like claws, gathering the strands of light between her long fingers — and pulls.

Dean’s whole body jerks forward, the threads flaring brightly everywhere they touch his skin. “I’m coming,” he moans, and Deer Woman smiles and lifts one delicate hoof.

“No!” Sam shouts.

Dean doesn’t react, just keeps walking, actually dragging Sam over the uneven ground for a few steps. Sam’s grip on him slips as his injured foot threatens to turn under him again, but he manages to get hold of him again before Dean takes another step. “Don’t do this,” Sam begs him, wrapping one arm around Dean’s chest and the other around his waist. He pulls Dean in close, holds him as tightly as he can. “I don’t care, you hear me? I don’t care if you sleep around, I don’t care if it’s me you’re denying your feelings for, I don’t care! Dean—” 

He risks letting go with one hand and grabs Dean’s chin, turning his head to face him. Dean’s blank, glowing eyes meet his. Nothing else has worked, but Sam won’t give up. He can’t. And there’s still something he hasn’t tried yet.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads, and presses his lips to Dean’s.

Green light flashes around them, so bright Sam has to close his eyes against it. Dean’s lips, slack when he first touched them, move under his, tightening and then parting. Sam deepens the kiss, gently sucking Dean’s bottom lip between his own, and nearly starts crying when he feels Dean touch him, fingers skittering over his chest until they fasten onto his shirt. 

“Sam,” Dean mumbles against his lips.

The light vanishes.

Dean stumbles back from him, gasping for breath. “What the hell,” he mutters, touching his lips. “Sam? What happened? Did you really—” He cuts off, freezing mid-step, his now-clear eyes wide. Deer Woman stands before him, no longer smiling, her black hair snaking through the air and green lights snapping around her. She looms, impossibly tall and otherworldly. 

And angry.

“Ah,” Dean says.

Deer Woman slams her uplifted hoof down, shaking the branches overhead. “Come!” she orders again, pulling hard on the threads still spooled between her fingers. But the cords just dance, no longer attached to anything, tracing vanishing trails in the air like sparklers. Deer Woman’s blazing eyes narrow.

Sam lunges forward and grabs his brother’s arm. “Come on!” he shouts above the creaking of the trees. “We have to go before she—”

Lightning fast, a hoof appears, smashing into Dean’s bicep. Dean bellows with pain and jumps back, colliding with Sam. “Son of a bitch!” he yelps, as Deer Woman advances, her hooves striking the ground with clear purpose. 

Her lip curls, and she lowers her head. “Come,” she growls, and strikes.

Sam jumps in front of Dean, taking the impact of her charge on his own chest. Her antlers slash across his sternum, tearing his shirt like paper. One of the points, longer and sharper than the others, rips into the skin below his tattoo, spilling hot blood. Sam staggers, but refuses to fall. He lifts his chin and meets her furious gaze. 

“You can’t have him,” he snarls.

In response, she grabs him by the throat and lifts him into the air. Feebly, he tries to fight her off, but she just raises him higher. “He is mine,” she breathes, and tosses him aside.

He lands in a heap on the banks of the stream. The air rushes out of his lungs at the impact, and his already bruised body goes numb. Water seeps into his boots, wetting the hems of his sweats as he gasps for air. 

“Sam!” he hears Dean shout, and Sam thrashes toward the sound of his voice, forcing his limbs to cooperate. 

“Now you are mine,” Deer Woman purrs.

Wheezing, Sam looks up, in time to see Dean throw a punch at her. It never lands; Deer Woman knocks his arm aside with a swipe of her antlers. Blood blossoms on Dean’s shoulder as she reaches out her pale arms and slams her palms into his chest. With a grunt of pain, Dean goes down, landing hard on the forest floor. Leaves crackle underneath him, and Deer Woman seems to dance around him, her hooves flashing with green light, her hair writhing patterns in the night. She raises one leg high. “For your love,” she says, her voice hard as wood, and brings the hoof down.

Sam throws himself under it.

Pain explodes across his ribcage as her hoof smashes into his side. Only part of it actually lands; most of the impact skids off of him at an angle, but even a glancing blow is enough to make him curl into a ball and scream into his chest. 

“Sammy!” he hears Dean howl, as if from far away. He tries to reply, tell Dean he’s fine and that it’s him they have to be worried about, but he can’t get the words out. 

Then Deer Woman grabs him by the hair and lifts him to his feet. 

Weakly, Sam grabs for her arms, but she brushes him aside and latches her hands onto his shoulders. “Look,” she commands, and Sam makes his bleary eyes focus on her face. She’s even more beautiful up close, the sharp planes of her face lit by the glow of her eyes, her full lips pulled into a frown. “This is for you,” she whispers, and the light in her eyes abruptly fades, revealing a pair of soft brown eyes with black slotted pupils, framed by impossibly long black lashes. Deer’s eyes. 

“Not for me,” Sam chokes out, his voice rasping. “Don’t want it.”

She shakes her head, her silken hair brushing his hands. “Stay back.” Her eyes blaze again, and she lifts him up, preparing to throw him aside again.

Then she staggers.

Dean kicks again, landing a solid blow on the bone jutting several inches above her hoof. Her ankle, Sam thinks, as she shrieks with pain and drops him. It’s only a few inches, but he nearly falls when he lands, pain racing through his body and across his ribs. Dean grabs for him, pulling him away from her, and then shoves Sam behind him. “ _You_ stay back,” he snarls at her.

She sneers at him and hobbles forward, her hand darting out and fastening on his throat. “You hurt him,” she grits out. “You followed me to hide from him, and you hurt others to lie to yourself.” She lowers her head, tracing the point of one antler across his cheek. The skin splits, blood beading up in a thin line. “And I do not need my hooves to take care of you.”

“No!” Sam croaks, but Dean waves a frantic hand at him. 

“You want to kill me for hiding from my feelings?” he rasps. “Fine. Maybe I deserve it. Hell, all I’ve done, I probably do. But Sam sure as hell doesn’t.”

He brings the side of his hand down hard on her wrist, and with a hiss she releases him. Before either she or Sam has time to react, Dean turns to Sam, puts both hands on the sides of his face, and yanks him down into a kiss.

The kiss is hard, almost painful, and Sam can taste blood on Dean’s lips. But he kisses back, bruising their mouths together, hoping that this is what will get them out of this, that this is what will keep Dean alive. Dean opens his mouth under his, and their tongues slide against each other, tangling together for one electric moment before Dean abruptly pulls away. “See?” he demands, turning to glare at her. “Now back the fuck off, because I’m not hiding anymore.”

She stands in the same place, eyes still glowing, her face impassive. But she doesn’t respond, and she doesn’t attack, and so Sam steps forward. “Please,” he appeals. She looks at him, her lips pursing slightly, her hair whipping around her. “I’ve hidden how I felt from him too, and he didn’t know he was hurting me. If you kill him now, it will hurt me more than anything he’s done.” 

“I’m not hiding,” Dean repeats, and he reaches down and grabs Sam’s hand, twining their fingers together. “We’ll work it out, okay? I won’t hurt him again, not if I can help it. And if you ever touch him again, I will fucking _break_ your ankles, you got it?”

She looks at Dean, and then back at Sam. Then, abruptly, the light in her eyes vanishes, and she blinks her beautiful doe eyes at them. Her lips curve into a smile.

“Keep your promise,” she says, and then she’s gone.


	3. Chapter Three

Darkness descends around them, painting the forest in ever-darkening shades of gray until just the barest hint of the shapes of the trees remains. Sam tips his head back, ignoring the protesting throb of his cheek, and gazes at the canopy of branches overhead and, between them, the muted light of the stars. The threat is gone, but it’s not over, not yet. They’re probably lost, or will be once they try to navigate the forest with barely any light. It’s cold and dark and they’re both hurting, if miraculously not badly injured. He can feel blood drying on his chest, can taste it in his mouth, and every movement makes his ribs sing with pain. 

But Dean’s next to him, fingers entwined with his, and Sam hasn’t been this happy in a long, long time.

Eventually, though, Dean shifts and clears his throat. “We should head back,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “If we can even find the motel, that is.”

Reluctantly, Sam nods. “I can get us back, I think. I’ve had to come out this way twice now.”

Dean lets out his breath in a rush. “Sammy, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Sam cuts in. “You’ve done plenty of shit to apologize for, but not for this. Not for any of this.”

Dean’s fingers twitch in Sam’s, like he’s thinking of pulling his hand away. Sam can almost see it happening, already: Dean pulls away; Dean denies it; Dean pretends it never happened; they never talk about it. Not this time, he thinks, curling his fingers around Dean’s more tightly. “Come on,” he says out loud, and tugs on Dean’s hand. After a moment, Dean follows.

They walk back hand in hand.

Luckily, the light from the stars is just enough to keep them from running into trees, though not to prevent a few unfortunate collisions with low-lying bushes. “Fucking woods,” Dean mutters, but Sam just shrugs and keeps moving, squinting at the trees and following the faint signs of their earlier passage, Dean’s hand firmly in his.

Finally they spot the lights in the parking lot, shining bright after the dusky forest. Dean takes the lead then, ushering Sam through the last few yards and out onto the grassy stretch leading to the motel. Sam shivers, finally feeling the cold once they’ve emerged from the protection of the trees. The wind is worse out in the open, and it doesn’t help that his pants are still damp around his shins. 

“Come on,” Sam says through chattering teeth. “Let’s pack up and just get the hell out of here.”

“Awesome as that sounds,” Dean says over his shoulder, “we’ve gotta get you patched up first.”

The door to their room is still open, Sam sees as they approach. Dean lets go of his hand then, edging forward and peering inside before gesturing for Sam to go in. “Guess no one noticed,” he says as he shuts the door and bolts it. He gives Sam a tired smile. “Nice job, leaving it open.”

“You’re the one who opened it,” Sam mumbles, going straight for the heater. It’s barely warmer in their room than it was outside. “I just didn’t close it.”

Dean shrugs. “Fair enough.” He goes to the table and closes Sam’s laptop, then moves both it and the silver knife to the top of the luggage rack. “Get over here, I need to check you over.”

“You too,” Sam says, shuffling over to the table as Dean roots through his duffel, finally coming up with their battered first aid kit. Wincing, Sam toes his boots off. The foot Dean stomped on earlier still hurts, though he doesn’t think it’s serious. “Your cheek’s still bleeding, you know that?”

Dean makes a face. “Yeah, Sam, the taste of blood kinda tipped me off. Sit down.” Sam sinks into the chair, and Dean sets the kit down on the table and starts to reach for Sam’s shirt. Halfway there, his hands still, and he swallows hard. “Sam,” he grunts, voice shaking, “can I, uh, can I—”

Dean’s actually blushing, Sam notes. He feels like he’s blushing himself; he’s breathless, heart racing, skin tingling with nameless anticipation. They’re not going to push this aside, he realizes. “Go ahead,” he whispers, and Dean nods and carefully, carefully, pulls Sam’s shirts off.

Sam shivers again when the air hits his bare skin, but only partly because of the cold. Dean bites his lip as he reaches out and touches the ugly bruises across Sam’s ribs. Sam hisses as pain shoots across his abdomen, but it’s dulled now, not nearly as bad it was when it happened. “You okay?” Dean asks, gruff, his fingertips lingering on Sam’s skin.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. His body’s thrumming, focused on the rough touch of Dean’s fingers on him. “I think it’s just bruised.” He stretches his back, arching it and paying attention to the pull of his muscles. His ribs protest, but they don’t shift the way they do when they’re cracked or broken, and the pain doesn’t get any worse.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Dean says after a moment. His voice is husky, more than usual, and red still stains his cheeks. He lifts his hand, moves it to gingerly touch Sam’s cheek. He’s not quite meeting Sam’s eyes. “How about this? Is that from the headbutt?”

“No,” Sam says after a moment. He taps the slice under his tattoo, which has stopped bleeding. The blood’s dried into a painfully tight line that threatens to open when he moves, though; they’ll have to bandage it. “This was from her antlers.”

Dean nods, and he looks right at Sam then. His green eyes are slightly bloodshot but so damn gorgeous, and Sam wants to stand up, press his lips against Dean’s again and taste his brother without fear propelling it. “So what happened here?” Dean asks, gently tracing a thumb over the bruise. It hurts, but it’s Dean touching him, Dean’s fingers tenderly stroking the line of his jaw, and despite the pain Sam can feel himself getting hard. 

“Actually,” he gets out, “that was you. You, uh, elbowed me in the face when I tried to stop you.”

Dean’s eyes go dark, and he drops his hand. “Shit,” he mutters. “Sam—”

“I already told you not to apologize,” Sam interrupts. He reaches up, touches Dean’s cheek just under the cut. It’s bleeding, but sluggishly; it should be fine with just tape. “I get it, man, and I don’t care. I got you back, and that’s all that matters.”

Dean shudders in a breath. “Did you mean it?” he asks, abrupt. ”All that stuff you said, about — about hiding it from me too, and all that — it wasn’t just some bullshit you came up with to get her to back off, was it?” He raises his eyes then, meeting Sam’s, and there’s wetness there, sparkling around the edges of his lashes.

Sam lets out his own breath. He’s not surprised that Dean’s asking him this. Dean has never really believed how much he means to Sam; he’s always been too caught up in feeling like he doesn’t deserve Sam, too blind to realize that, even though Sam doesn’t always show it in the same way, Sam loves Dean just as hard as Dean loves Sam. “You are just determined not to believe that I love you, aren’t you,” Sam says, quiet. “Dean, I meant every word of it. Even the ones you probably don’t remember.”

“Even that killing me would be worse than anything I could do to you?” Dean sounds choked up, now. “Because I’ve done some horrible shit to you, Sam, and sometimes—”

“You have,” Sam agrees. “And it doesn’t mean that you can pull shit like that again and I won’t get angry, I’m not saying that. But Dean,” he grabs Dean’s arms, pulling himself up out of the chair, “I fucking love you, you got it?” He wraps his fingers around Dean’s shoulders and drags him in close. “I. Love. You.” He kisses Dean then, hard, sealing his mouth over his brother’s, trying to show him without words that he means everything he’s just said. 

For a moment, Dean doesn’t move. Then, just as suddenly as Sam kissed him, he kisses Sam back, reaching up and tangling both hands in Sam’s hair, his fingers scraping lightly over his scalp. Sam hums, wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling him in even closer, pressing his bare chest against Dean’s shirt. Mouths open, they slide their tongues together, exploring each other. Dean still tastes a little coppery, but now Sam can taste him too, a sort of smoky flavor he’s never come across before but recognizes instantly.

Dean moves his hands down, framing Sam’s face with his palms, kissing him so insistently Sam is dizzy with it. The edge of the bruise on his cheek pulses, but if there’s anything Sam’s learned to be good at, it’s ignoring pain when he needs to, and everything else is so good that it barely even registers. 

He wants Dean’s skin, he thinks, feeling the rough fabric of Dean’s shirt catching on his nipples. Fumbling, he pushes Dean’s flannel off his shoulders, then grapples for the hem of his t-shirt. Dean lets go of him long enough to yank it off over his head and toss it aside, and then he’s back, hands caressing the planes of Sam’s chest, mouth fused with Sam’s, tongue sliding along Sam’s lower lip.

 _Yes,_ Sam thinks. He feels alive in a way he hasn’t in years, his body tight and thrumming, electrified wherever Dean touches him. His erection strains at his sweatpants, and he pushes his hips forward, rubbing it against Dean, who lets out a groan and a strangled, “ _Jesus_ , Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam gasps back.

Dean’s hands skim down over his body, stopping at the waistband of his sweats. “Sam,” he mumbles, and Sam cants his hips forward and whispers, “Yes,” against his lips. Dean hooks his thumbs in the elastic and peels the pants down without breaking the kiss. As soon as they’re down far enough, Sam kicks them off, barely noticing or caring about the flash of pain in his foot. 

But it doesn’t matter anyway, because then Dean grabs him around the waist and bodily lifts him, just enough to set him down on the table. Sam hisses, both from the contact of his bare ass with the cold wood, and from the sheer eroticism of the whole thing. He’s picked up plenty of women before, but he’s never had the same thing done to him, hadn’t expected it even now. It wasn’t ever in any of his fantasies, either, when he let himself think about sex with Dean and what it might be like. 

_This is really happening._

He doesn’t have much time to contemplate it, though, as Dean’s all over him then, his body pressed in the space between Sam’s spread thighs, his mouth sucking kisses in a line down Sam’s throat, his hands tracing the curve of Sam’s spine. Sam closes his eyes and arches his back, gasping, clutching at Dean’s shoulders to keep from falling backwards from sensory overload. 

Dean closes his mouth over first one nipple, then the other, sucking them into his mouth and rolling them around until they’re wet and aching, a delicious burn that Sam can feel all down his abdomen and into his cock. “Dean,” he gasps, “ _Dean_ ,” because it is Dean, it’s Dean doing this to him, it’s Dean here with his hands on Sam’s thighs and his teeth scraping over his nipples, and it’s both everything he ever imagined and nothing like it at all.

“Sam,” Dean groans back, and then his hands are gone. Sam makes a noise of protest, but then he feels movement between his thighs, and he opens his eyes in time to see Dean shove his jeans down over his hips. His brother’s cock springs free, and Sam stares, unabashed. He’s seen it before, of course, dozens if not hundreds of times. But he’s never seen it like this, flushed and jutting straight out, a slight pearlescent sheen at the slit. 

Dean steps out of his jeans and kicks them aside, then nestles himself between Sam’s legs again. His cock presses against Sam’s inner thigh, hot and thick, and Sam whimpers and leans back, propping himself up on his elbows so he can wrap his legs around Dean’s waist. Luckily, the table’s just wide enough. “Dean,” he moans, feeling the hardness of his brother’s cock pushing up against the base of his own erection. “Dean, _please_.” He lifts his hips, asking Dean without words for what he wants.

“Hang on,” Dean whispers. “Just let me get—”

“No,” Sam manages, clenching his thighs around Dean’s hips. “Just — here. Now.”

Dean sucks in a shaky breath, but he still looks uncertain. “You sure?”

Sam nods.

Dean regards him for a long moment, breathing hard. He reaches out and touches Sam’s cheek, the bruised one, his fingers brushing the skin so gently Sam doesn’t even feel pain. Then he nods back and brings his fingers to his mouth.

Sam loosens his grip, letting his thighs fall apart again as Dean eases his hand between them. A moment later, he feels the touch of Dean’s finger circling the rim, and even though Sam’s never actually done this with someone else before, his body remembers what to do. Sam breathes, tightening his fingers on the edge of the table but relaxing the rest of his body. Dean’s finger slides in almost easily, and Sam closes his eyes, savoring it. It’s not enough, not nearly, and it’s gone again before he has a chance to really get used to it. 

“Dean,” he keens, spreading his legs wider and digging his heels into Dean’s ass.

“Easy,” Dean whispers, and then he’s sliding two fingers, slick with saliva, into him. Sam keens again and writhes, his fingers straining on the table. His ribs protest, twinging as he moves, but he ignores that too, focusing instead on the feel of his brother’s fingers sliding deeper inside of him. He feels stretched, strange, but at the same time it’s so fucking hot he can barely keep himself from shoving down on Dean’s fingers, especially when Dean crooks them and brushes a spot that makes his spine arch and his vision white out. 

“Dean, please,” he begs, and Dean pulls his fingers out. He spits again, several times, and Sam feels his hand moving, coating Dean’s own cock with saliva. Sam tenses at that, anticipation building in him until he wants to scream. 

Then Dean leans over him, pressing their chests together, and kisses him hard. “You sure?” he asks again, pulling back just enough to whisper the words against Sam’s lips.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam pants, and Dean gives him a crooked smile and kisses him again. Then he reaches down between them, and Sam can feel it now, the blunt tip of Dean’s cock bumping up against him. Dean whispers something to him, and Sam closes his eyes, biting his lip as Dean’s cock spreads him open, hard heat pushing into him. Dean is going slowly, pausing at regular intervals to reapply saliva, and Sam knows they shouldn’t rush this, especially with just saliva as lube. But he wants to, wants Dean to fill him up entirely, wants to feel Dean in every inch of his body. Nothing he’s done to himself could have fully prepared him for this. It’s excruciating, the slow burn of it, but good too.

 _Definitely_ good.

He nearly sobs when Dean’s finally flush against him, his thighs butting up against the lower curve of Sam’s ass, his cock buried deep inside of him. “Tell me if I should slow down,” Dean murmurs, and then he’s moving, making shallow thrusts. Sam sucks in a breath, trying to adjust, his head spinning. 

His cock, which had started to soften, hardens again as Dean wraps a hand around it. “Oh god,” he mumbles. Dean’s hand is big enough to close entirely around it, and it’s fucking amazing, Dean’s callused palm stroking down over the shaft, his thumb drawing circles over the slit. Dean’s fucking him harder now, the thrusts longer and deeper, and when he brushes that same spot again, Sam actually does cry out and wrap his legs more tightly around Dean’s waist to keep from flying apart. Between his brother’s cock and his brother’s hand, he can feel orgasm starting to approach, coiling around the base of his spine and tingling through his skin.

Dean leans over him and wraps his other arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him up into a sloppy kiss. Sam opens his mouth under the onslaught of Dean’s, drinking in the taste of his brother, still mixed with the tang of blood. Dean’s hand quickens then, palm rubbing over the head of Sam’s cock, and he drives into Sam hard, once, twice. 

Sam can tell when Dean comes, even though he hasn’t seen it before; Dean suddenly breaks the kiss and presses his face against Sam’s shoulder, his body shuddering against Sam’s, his mouth wet against Sam’s collarbone until he finally stills. “God, Sammy,” he rasps, and that’s what does it, Dean’s wrecked voice saying his name. Orgasm slams through him, and Sam blindly lets go of the table and gropes for Dean, wanting to hold onto him as his cock paints streaks down his abdomen and over Dean’s hand. The edge of the table bites into the backs of his upper thighs, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about anything but the two of them, together, here.

Dean pulls him into a tight hug when it’s over. Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck, breathing in the scent of him, sweat and musk and comfort. “Not bad,” he whispers, and Dean laughs into his hair.

“Not bad,” he agrees. 

The pain Sam’s been ignoring finally rears its head, and hissing, he slides down off the table to stand on shaky legs. Sharp pain knifes through his ribs, and Sam starts to double over, gritting his teeth against it. “Whoah,” Dean says, catching him before he stumbles.

“Guess we should have patched ourselves up first,” Sam wheezes.

“Or not done it on a table,” Dean mutters. “And without lube or condoms, christ.”

Sam laughs thickly and presses his mouth to Dean’s neck. “Not sorry we did it, man.”

Dean strokes a hand down over Sam’s back in response. Then he maneuvers Sam around until he’s in front of the chair. “S’gonna be messy,” Sam pants as Dean eases him down. His ass isn’t sore, exactly, but it feels raw, and he sucks in his breath when he settles his weight onto it. Definitely using lube next time, he thinks, rueful. But, like he said, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

“So we’ll leave a good tip.” Dean opens the first aid kit, which somehow stayed on the table the entire time, and fishes out some bandages and alcohol. He quickly cleans the cut under Sam’s tattoo, wiping away the dried blood and a few dribbles of fresh. It must have opened up again, during, Sam thinks, watching as Dean lays gauze over it and tapes it. “The rest is just bruises, right?” he asks when he’s done.

Sam nods, then wishes he hadn’t. “Yeah,” he says, gingerly touching his cheek. It feels hot to the touch and slightly puffy. “They’re fine. I’ve had much worse.”

Dean frowns. “We really should have ganked her when we had the chance. I mean, she kills people, and that’s what we do, right?” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam agrees. “I’m not sure how, though. Silver might do it, but nature spirits… sometimes you can’t kill them. And she’s not a slime monster anyway, Dean. She’s usually not a threat to people, and she does good too. It’s not that straightforward, with her.” 

“It never is anymore,” Dean mutters. “So what do we do then?”

Sam reaches out, strokes his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip, the way he’s wanted to for years. Dean’s mouth drops open at his touch, and Sam traces the shape of his lips, marvelling at the feel of him. “We leave her alone, this time,” he murmurs, wincing as pain shoots through his ribs. “We kind of owe her for this.”

Dean kisses his fingers, then puts Sam’s hand back down in his lap. “You should ice those bruises.”

Sam shrugs. “Later,” he says, taking the tape from Dean. “Your turn, man.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean sits on the edge of the bed across from him and lets Sam clean and tape up first his cheek, and then a cut on the upper part of his arm. From her antlers, when Dean tried to punch her, Sam remembers, laying butterfly strips down across it. There’s a bruise further down his arm, mirroring the one on Sam’s ribs, and a small one on his throat. From her thumb, Sam realizes after a moment. He probably has one too. “I think you’re done,” he says finally, and leans forward to brush his lips over Dean’s.

Dean kisses him back, slow and sweet. “Not yet,” he murmurs, and then he grins at Sam, and it’s so unexpected that Sam nearly slides right off the now-sticky chair. Dean catches him again, chuckling, and helps him to his feet. “Come on,” he says, and leads Sam to the bed.

They pull back the covers and curl up on it, Dean’s arms looped around Sam’s shoulders, Sam’s leg thrown over Dean’s thigh. Sam closes his eyes, leaning his head against Dean’s and letting the heat of his brother’s body soak into his. His own body aches, especially his ribs, but it’s almost nothing compared to the sense of contentment purring through him. He’s not naive enough to think that things between them will be easy from now on, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like it’s possible. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean murmurs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Sam’s back. 

“Because we don’t do that,” Sam replies. “And even if we did, there’s never really a good time to tell your brother you want to fuck him.” Dean snorts out a laugh at that. “But,” Sam continues, “we should. We should tell each other shit, because when we don’t, this kind of thing happens. Something forces the truth out, and it’s a million times worse because of the lies. I’d rather be hurt with the truth. Not,” and he turns to Dean, pressing his lips against Dean’s unhurt cheek, “that this hurt me. But in general.”

“I know.” Dean’s voice sounds heavy. “I know all of that, and I’m gonna try, Sammy, I am.”

“That’s all I’m asking, for now. And I’ll try too.” Sam moves his mouth down, kisses Dean on the lips this time. “But why didn’t you tell me? Not a while ago, I get why not. But why not earlier tonight?”

“Because,” Dean says after a long moment, “I’d just hurt you by doing something selfish. I couldn’t do it again, Sammy, I couldn’t face pushing you away again because I wanted something you didn’t.” 

“And look what happened,” Sam murmurs. “See what I mean? You tried not to push me away, and that pushed me away.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Dean grumbles, and the mood is broken. Sam laughs, and after a moment Dean laughs with him.

“Sam?” Dean asks, and he sounds almost shy. 

“Yeah?”

“How long have you…?”

“Years,” Sam answers. “I don’t even really remember when it started. I mean, sometimes it would fade, especially when I hadn’t seen you for awhile. Or you’d really pissed me off.”

Dean kind of laughs at that. “Funny you want me now, then.”

“Shut up with that crap.” Sam grabs Dean’s chin and makes Dean meet his gaze. “Weren’t you listening earlier?”

Dean swallows hard, his eyes searching Sam’s face. “I — yeah. Yeah, I was.” He kisses Sam then, parting his lips with his tongue and fastening their mouths together. Sam melts into him, pulling him close and plastering their chests together. He can’t stop the pained whoosh of air from escaping him, though, and Dean pulls back, a slight frown on his face.

“Maybe,” he starts.

“No,” Sam says, kissing him on his lips, his nose, even his bandaged cheek. “You said you weren’t done, man, and I’m not either. I’ll be fine.” He pulls Dean back into his arms, pressing his erection against Dean’s hip. Dean’s hard too, he realizes, feeling the length of it press against his abdomen. He kisses Dean again, nudging their lips together as he rocks his hips. Swearing, Dean kisses back, shifting until their cocks are lined up, pushed together in a hot line. It feels amazing, better than he’d have thought, and Sam bucks into it, gasping with pain and pleasure mixed.

“Dean,” he mumbles, voice ragged.

“Wait.” Dean twines his fingers in Sam’s and then tugs, gently. “This’ll be easier. Come on.” He rolls onto his back, spreading his legs open, and tugs, again. 

Sam blinks at him. “You want me?”

Dean smiles at him, and it’s the best thing in the world, seeing Dean smile like that again, genuine and pure. “Yeah, I want you.”

Sam lets Dean draw him on top of him. Dean’s right; it is easier, kneeling between Dean’s legs, hands braced on Dean’s hips, nothing touching either his ribs or his cheek. Once he’s settled, Dean twists, reaching for his duffel, which is a few feet away on the floor. After a moment, he catches the strap and drags it over, then reaches into it and comes up with a small tube. Sam sucks in a breath as Dean hands it over, his hand trembling.

Sam takes it, hand shaking equally as much. “You sure?” 

In response, Dean lifts his hips and opens his knees, offering himself without words. He looks beautiful there, naked skin glistening in the lamplight, lips flushed and swollen, eyes half-lidded, cock full and ready. Sam strokes a hand down the soft skin of his inner thigh, watching as the muscles in Dean’s abdomen jump. With his other hand, he pops the cap of the tube off.

Dean arches when Sam touches him, fingers slippery with lube. “S’cold,” he mumbles, but he pushes himself down on Sam’s fingers, swearing as they slide in past the first knuckle. Sam watches Dean’s face as he gently pumps them in and out, watches the way his lips press and part, the shadow of his eyelashes fluttering across his cheeks. Beautiful, he thinks again. 

“C’mon, Sam, do it,” Dean groans, and Sam pulls his fingers free and squeezes out more lube. He slicks his cock up this time, panting as he does it, barely able to believe that he’s about to do this, that Dean wants him to. But Dean’s here, Dean’s asking for it, and Sam wants him so much that he’s light-headed, giddy with nervous anticipation.

He grasps Dean’s thighs, parting them. Dean’s head falls back as Sam slowly pushes in, his hands still gripping Dean’s thighs. He’d felt warm before, when Sam’s fingers had been inside him, but it’s nothing compared to the tight heat of him enveloping Sam now. 

Sam closes his eyes, then opens them again. He wants to see this.

He goes slow at first, trying to hold back, but Dean grabs for his forearms and squeezes, panting. “Do it, Sam,” he growls, and Sam does, driving into him over and over, watching as Dean writhes and bucks under him. Dean’s mumbling his name now, over and over, his cock bobbing with every thrust. Sam lets go of his leg with one hand and wraps his palm around it, stroking down its length, memorizing the weight of it in his hand.

“Oh christ,” Dean rasps. His hands are gripping the sheets on either side of him now, pulling them half off the bed. It’s too much, the sight of him, the heat of him, the sound of his name on Dean’s lips. His body tightens, his back arches, and Sam comes, gasping out his brother’s name.

His hips stutter, breaking the rhythm, and Dean bucks up, thrusting his cock against Sam’s palm, squeezing his legs tight around Sam’s waist. Panting, the last of his own orgasm spiraling through him, Sam jerks Dean in earnest, rubbing his thumb over the head, whispering Dean’s name again and again until Dean goes rigid. His cock spills, pumping out streams that flow down over Sam’s hand and splatter across Dean’s skin. 

God, Sam loves him.

Dean goes limp after, breathing hard, and Sam extracts himself from between his legs and carefully lies down next to him. “Hey,” he whispers, putting his hand on Dean’s chest, and Dean turns and kisses him with such unbridled passion that it takes Sam’s breath away. He closes his eyes, kissing him back, drinking in the sense of him. 

They lie together for a long time after that, not wanting to break the spell yet. Sam knows they’ll have to leave in the morning, go back to the mess that is their lives. But maybe it’ll be a little easier, now, if they work at it. 

He already knows it’ll be worth it.

The light of dawn is just starting to touch the sky outside the window when Dean stirs. “Hey,” he says, lifting his head. “You up to finishing the sweep?”

Sam can’t help laughing. Dean would make the first words after sex be about hunting slime monsters. But he said it earlier; it’s what they do, and this new thing between them won’t change that. “We’ve probably got another week before it’s too cold,” he says, and Dean nods, understanding.

“What you said earlier,” he mumbles. “Sam, I—”

“I know,” Sam whispers, and he does.

They’ve always communicated best without words, anyway.

END


End file.
